Remember Me?
by gabthebomb
Summary: Post season-6 finale. When Liz wakes up in the hospital having lost three years of memory, she's about to find out just how much things have changed. Inspired by Sophie Kinsella's novel of the same name. All belongs to her and Tina; I own nothing!
1. Chapter 1

…

_Owww._ When Liz Lemon half-wakes up, she's so woozy that she can't think, let alone open her eyes. She lies there for a while, wondering if it is morning yet, and why her head hurts so much. Bits of the night before swim in her head, and she has the impression that there was some heavy drinking involved. Certainly a monstrous hangover would explain her splitting headache.

God, she is never drinking again, _ever_.

Somewhere far off she thinks there is a voice…but no, she has to sleep…

…

How long has she been awake? Five minutes? Half an hour, maybe? It's kinda hard to tell. She still feels rough, her head pounding with a rhythmic pain, and she realizes that she's not positive what day it is. As her body gains full consciousness, she can feel that her eyelids are welded shut with that gross crusty stuff that shows up during sleep.

Awesome.

Cautiously, she moves a hand up to her face and hears a rustle of sheets. They don't sound like her ones at home, or feel like them for that matter (the absence of assorted snack food crumbs is a dead giveaway). With a huge effort, she wrenches her eyes open and lifts her head a few inches.

What the _what_—?

She's lying in a dim hospital room, with a panel of buttons to the right of the metal bed and a bunch of flowers on the night table. The TV overhead is muted, and a daytime TV host that Liz doesn't recognize gestures animatedly to his crowd. With a swallow, she notices the IV drop in her left hand, attached to a bag of fluid. This is not good.

Suddenly, a middle-aged nurse sweeps into the room, slips around the divider curtain and stoops to check her chart. Under the woman's nameplate, her smock has the words 'Lenox Hill' embroidered in maroon letters. Well, at least she knows where she is now.

"'Scuse me, what—?" Liz croaks, her throat excruciatingly dry. She eyes a cup of water on the night table, and the nurse leans over to hand it to her. She accepts the drink gratefully, and gulps it down.

The nurse, Melissa, smiles kindly. "Hi, Liz. How are you feeling?"

"Um, okay, thanks. I'm just really thirsty. Obviously. And my head hurts," she babbles.

"I'll get you some painkillers," Melissa nods, and marks something on a clipboard.

"Thanks," Liz says, and finishes the water. "So…I'm in a hospital. Why?" she frowns, embarrassed at her condition and even more so that she has no idea what circumstances brought it on.

"You don't remember how you got here?"

"No." She shakes her head, and winces when it brings on a sharp pain. "I'm sorta hazy, to be honest."

"Well, you had quite the bump on the head. I'll go get your pill, and meanwhile try to see if you remember anything about the accident," Melissa says gently, and leaves the room.

Accident…accident. And suddenly, in a rush, it all comes back. Last night, or whenever, she'd been at one of Kenneth's legendary insane parties, doing…what was it? Oh, yeah, Jell-O shots. And lots of them. It had been a terrible time—she and Criss had broken up two days beforehand, and Liz had of course turned to booze (some things never change). She remembers the pouring rain when she left, running for the taxi…she'd slipped!

Mother of Thor, she must have really hit her head.

With that great snippet of memory, the crushing feeling of despair overcomes her once more. She'd really thought that they'd make it, her and Criss. But he'd freaked out once they started looking over the adoption papers, and with a simple _I'm sorry, but I can't do this,_ he'd walked right out of her life. She'd been left in a puddle, with nothing to do but warily inspect the cupcake-shaped invitation that Kenneth had sent in the mail.

Well, she suspects that her parents haven't been notified yet. But where is everyone, _anyone_ else? Jenna, or Pete? Or Jack? When she thinks of how quickly she'd rushed to him in the hospital after the heart attack, she can't help but frown even deeper. What the hell is his excuse?

The frustration is enough to make her eyes tear up, and at that moment Melissa returns with another cup of water.

"Oh, dear, is the pain that bad?" she sympathizes, and Liz wastes no time gulping down the meds.

"It doesn't compare to the overall awfulness of my life right now," she says darkly, thinking that her life has been total hell from start to finish. Not that she plans on dying right now. Judging from the crowds of people in her room right now (cue sarcasm), it's unlikely that anyone would even show up to the funeral.

"Oh, I'm sure it's not so bad," the nurse says reassuringly. "And it will get better!"

Liz grabs a tissue from the bed stand, and blows her nose attractively. The older woman winces at the impressive sound that emits from her rather slender patient, and looks a tiny bit taken aback.

"I just wish, that for _once_, something would fall into place. Why is the universe so against Liz Lemon trying to have it all?" She is nearly shouting, and the nurse places a comforting hand on one shoulder. Liz allows it for only a moment, because this woman has no idea of the relationship crap she has been through, or what she deals with at work on a daily basis. She's still pissed that Jack hasn't shown up, speaking of which. Liz leans out of the bed to look for her phone, which she assumes is around somewhere.

"Your handbag is in here, by the way," the nurse says, noticing. She hands over a plastic bag before exiting, and Liz lifts out a roomy leather satchel that just _smells _expensive. Dammit, they must have switched the bags. She sighs and pushes the purse aside, and realizes that there is a phone loose in the plastic.

It's an iPhone, but a newer model that she doesn't recognize—not that she really keeps up with that stuff. She switches it on out of curiosity, and the background is a generic pattern. But a banner at the top reads 'Liz Lemon' in block letters and she cocks her head, puzzled. She's pretty sure that this isn't her phone, but the welcome message urges her to unlock the slide-y bar. After some quick tapping, she reaches the contact list and begins to scroll through. She recognizes some names and not others, including Jenna, the Thai take-out place down the block from her, and Frank's mom. The emails in the inbox—while from companies and contacts that she's never head of—are all addressed to her. Convinced that the device is hers at this point, despite the little warning bells going off in her mind at the weirdness, she returns to the Contacts app to give Jack a piece of her mind.

That's odd. His name isn't there.

She double-checks under Favorites, because he's been on her speed dial for years, and still nothing. Did she accidentally delete it at the party? She has no idea why that would've happened. Liz doesn't remember even talking to him in a week at least.

It's bothersome that the number is missing, and beyond annoying that she can't drudge up the digits from memory. Why had she never bothered to memorize it? Ugh, everything is just _the worst_.

She tosses the phone onto the bed with a sigh, and looks at the leather bag once more, wondering whom it belongs to. A small gold plate on it reads _Hermés – Paris,_ which she's heard of thanks to Jack, and figures that it belongs to some rich lady down the hall. Finally Liz drops the bag on the floor, flops on her back, and closes her eyes.

…


	2. Chapter 2

…

Liz wakes up to find beams of morning light streaming through the scratchy blue hospital curtains. The IV drip has disappeared, which makes her feel way more normal. Melissa is in a corner of the room, messing with some papers, and Liz clears her still scratchy throat.

"Hey. Melissa," she says, "Do you know what time it is?"

The nurse turns around with raised eyebrows. "You remember me?"

"Yeah, of course," Liz says in surprise. "We talked last night."

"Wonderful! That means you've recovered from the post-traumatic amnesia," the woman beams. "Don't worry; the confusion is normal after a head injury," she adds.

Before Liz can reply, there's a knock on the door and a petite woman in her sixties enters. She has short, strawberry-blond dyed curly hair, tortoiseshell glasses, and is holding a plastic Duane Reade bag.

Margaret Lemon purses her lips in utter sympathy, and Liz can't help but feel relief that _somebody_ finally showed up.

"Elizabeth, baby, how are you feeling?" she asks in a familiar oh-poor-Liz voice, which makes her feel five years old all over again. "It's me. Your mo-ther," she says slowly and loudly.

"Hi, Mom, I'm fine," she shrugs. Her mother ignores this, and then asks Melissa how her daughter is. Apparently she needs an official confirmation.

"Liz is much better today," the nurse smiles. "A lot less confused than yesterday."

"Thank goodness!" Margaret says, and then lowers her voice in what is probably supposed to be a subtle move but instead results in a very obvious stage whisper. "It was like talking to a crazy person yesterday; I'm just so relieved."

Melissa defends her patient with a frown. "Well, she isn't insane in the slightest, and she can understand everything you say."

To be honest, Liz isn't listening. She can't help but stare at her mother, because something just seems…wrong. She looks different. Kind of…older?

Liz wonders for a moment if Margaret is sick, but that can't be it. It's true that she hasn't seen her in a while, what with the Christmas disasters that seem to have become the new tradition, and she feels a sudden guilt for not calling more often. Her mom seems to have aged overnight, almost. But no, she would know if her mother was ill. Right?

"Here you go, Liz, darling," she says in an overly loud, clear tone. She hands over the plastic bag, which contains some travel shampoos and other toiletries.

"Thanks, Mom," she rolls her eyes.

"Your father sends his love."

"Mom—"

"Oh, and I've got a card for you, from your nephew Randy. The gay one," she adds, as if this is a new and meaningful piece of information.

Liz wants to ask if Jack or Jenna has been by while she slept, but is interrupted once again.

"—He's doing quite well with that Steve fellow. They want to ask your advice on skiing," Margaret informs her.

Steve? Liz doesn't know who Steve is; she's sure Randy hasn't mentioned anyone in the occasional emails that they trade.

Also, skiing? She has no idea how to ski.

"Mom…" Liz frowns, "What are you talking about?"

She doesn't get an answer, because right then a doctor that she doesn't recognize, with a couple of young, brainy-looking men behind him, enters the room. A room that is suddenly feeling very crowded.

"I should get going, Liz," her mom says. "I'm so glad you're feeling better, but my flight out of Newark is in forty minutes and I've got to get the rental car back to Hertz." She drops a quick kiss on her daughter's cheek before adding, "I can't believe the GW bridge toll—fifteen dollars I had to pay!"

That's not right either. The bridge toll isn't fifteen; Liz's sure it's only twelve, not that she ever uses a car—

Then her stomach drops. Oh, god—her mom is going senile at the age of sixty-two. Liz makes a note to ask the doctors about early-onset Alzheimer's the second Margaret is out of here. Does her father know? Ugh, probably not, he's so oblivious.

"Yeah, okay. Bye, Mom," she says with forced cheer, and tries not to look completely downtrodden. Even her _mother_ can't bear to spend more than five minutes at what is probably her deathbed.

The elder Lemon bustles out of the room, nearly knocking over the doctor who has been observing the exchange with an air of amusement. His interns hang back with quiet attention, ready to take copious notes from the looks of it.

"Hi there, Elizabeth," he says in a pleasant, brisk tone. "I'm Dr. Heart, one of the resident neurologists here. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she replies uncertainly. Liz is always wary of doctors. (With good reason.) She wonders randomly if they've removed any of her organs without her permission, but that's a train of thought that can only lead to no good.

"Great." The doctor nods. "I'm going to ask you some questions, bear with me if they seem a little obvious."

That sounds reasonable. "Okay," she agrees cautiously.

"Can you tell me your full name, please?"

"Elizabeth Lemon," she replies easily. Dr. Heart nods and checks something off on his clipboard.

"And the year you were born, please?"

"Nineteen-seventy," she mumbles almost incoherently. Because she loves being reminded that she is still alone and freelancing it at forty-one.

"Very good. Now, Liz, when your town car crashed, you bumped your head against the windshield. Your brain went through a minor amount of swelling, but you've been very lucky." He turns back to the paperwork, and she stares at him, puzzled.

"Um…I think you've mixed me up with someone else. I pretty much never take the company car, unless it's with Jack—Jack Donaghy—in which case why isn't he here too?" She frowns deeper, because she figures that even if he was in the crash, he probably got away fine, jerk that he is. And anyways, it was a taxi. She remembers the 'Gentlemen's Club' ad on its roof.

The doctor knits his eyebrows, and consults the file. "It says the patient was involved in a traffic accident. It was only you—I believe we've established that you are certainly Ms. Elizabeth Lemon—and a hired driver, who only experienced slight bruising. No 'Jack Donaghy' was involved," he says conclusively. The interns bob their heads in agreement, and she scowls. (Grad students are the worst.)

"Well, they must've written it down wrong," Liz protests. "I was at a party, and I was running for a taxi and I fell. That's what happened, I'm sure of it."

Dr. Heart and Melissa exchange confused looks.

"But it says here—" he tries to continue, and she cuts him off.

"I'm not gonna lie, I was pretty hammered that night. But I vividly remember a yellow taxi," she says, frustrated. "Look, we've already settled that I know who I am. Liz Lemon; head writer at NBC for a show that will be cancelled very, very soon; recently dumped forty-two-year-old with a half-painted nursery/guest room/office, etc. etc…"

At this point in her speech, she notices that the doctor and his posse are looking at her much too closely, with matching expressions that are basically, well, _grave_. Her stomach starts flip-flopping, because this is it, right? This is when they tell her that she has cancer, or a brain tumor, or a weird parasite disease from the tap water in her building that the super told her to stop drinking, but she refuses to pay those absurd prices for the bottled stuff?

With a sudden wobble in her voice, she asks, "Is something really wrong with me? Just tell me, okay?"

Oh, God, who's going to remind Kenneth to feed Tracy's lizard when she's gone?

"Liz, I'd like to ask you another question," the doctor says gently. "Can you tell me what year it is?"

This perplexes her. "What _year_ it is?"

"Don't be alarmed. It's one of our standard questions."

Too late, buster. She feels like she's about to have a stroke, from the way her heart is pounding. Something's the matter, she feels like they're almost playing a trick on her.

"It's 2012," Liz says finally.

Why won't they stop looking at her so carefully? There's a weird stillness in the room, and Liz can tell she's not the only one who isn't breathing.

"Okay," Dr. Heart lowers his clipboard. "Liz, today is September 20, 2015."

His face is serious. Melissa's face is serious. The baby-faced doctors-in-training even look serious.

They have to be messing with her, right?

"Ha, ha," she rolls her eyes. "Very funny, doc. Is this supposed to lighten the mood? Let me tell you, I know comedy. Don't quit your day job."

Then she frowns.

"Did Spaceman put you up to this? I swear, if that guy is lurking around here I will give him a piece of my—"

Dr. Heart doesn't break his gaze. "I'm not joking," he says slowly.

"He's serious, Ms. Lemon," one of the trainees pipes up, and Liz has the sudden urge to squeeze his neck until his head pops off. "We're really in 2015."

She can hear what they're saying, but it's ridiculous. The other day it was 2012. Katie and Tom were getting a divorce. How could they have jumped three years?

"It can't be 2015. Impossible. I'm not _stupid_—!"

"Take a deep breath; it's important to stay calm," The doctor says, to which she takes several short, gasping gulps of air. Stay calm, her ass. "Let's take this slowly. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Okay, well," she scrunches up her face in concentration. "The last thing I remember is leaving Kenneth's party, in Queens, and the cab, like I said. I slipped in a puddle, I think, and fell." Her voice is trembling, and she hates that she's becoming less sure by the minute. "And I woke up in a hospital. That was July 20th, 2012. I remember because the stupid invitation had it written in red Sharpie," she adds grumpily.

"Liz, all of that happened more than three years ago," Melissa says softly. "You're remembering the wrong accident."

She seems so sure; they all do, and panic rises in Liz as she looks at their faces. It's 2012. It _feels_ like 2012. She just saw the new Spider-man movie last week, the one with Andrew Garfield, for God's sake! He was so cute in spandex!

"What else do you remember?" asks Dr. Heart. "Working back from the accident, I should say."

"I dunno. Everything, I think. I remember work, and my friend Jenna, and my apartment, a-and Criss…" she trails off.

One of the interns had left the room while they were talking, and he returns now, holding a copy of the _New York Times_. The doctor nods.

"Yes, that's a good idea," he says.

"Look, Liz," Melissa says gingerly, probably worried that she'll start shouting again. "This is today's paper."

She experiences a massive jolt of shock as she reads the date: _September 20, 2015._ But that doesn't mean anything. It's just some words printed on a paper. It doesn't prove…she looks farther down the page, at a photograph of Obama.

"Huh, he's aged!" she blurts before she can help it, and _just like Mom _flits through her mind. With shaky hands, she turns the page, her gaze travelling uncertainly over a few headlines—_fracking bill on hold, student loan rates to rise—_then is drawn to a full-page movie ad:

**The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 2 in theaters Friday**

_**The Thrilling Conclusion to the Epic Trilogy**_

Okay, now she's really freaked out. She's seen Peeta Mellark in all of his boyish glory, but the sequel _Catching Fire_ wasn't supposed to be out—wouldn't come out—until November 2013. Liz knows, because she has a Google Alert _and_ the IMDB page bookmarked on her MacBook Pro.

She stares at the newspaper until the words begin to swim in front of her eyes, and it occurs to her that she can read it fine without help, positive she's not wearing contacts. Maybe the Lasig just took a few years to work.

And then Liz realizes that this is why nothing made sense—it's not her mother that's confused, it's her.

Blerg.

"Am I hallucinating?" she asks, her eyes darting from one professional to the other. "Have I gone nuts?"

"No!" Dr. Heart says empathetically. "Liz, I believe you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. It's normal for such a condition to arise after head injuries, it simply appears that yours is, well, dragging out a little."

Liz bites one lip, considering. She does have a tendency to hold on to things sometimes.

With a sigh, she glares at him, "So I've lost my memory? Is that it? Three years?"

"Well, it's difficult to be precise, but that's what it looks like."

She grabs the paper again. _September 20, 2015. September 20, 2015._

It really is the year 2015. Which means she must be…

Oh, God. She's forty-five.

Son of a mother, she's _old._

…


	3. Chapter 3

…

Dr. Heart prattles on for a while about scans and tests. Halfway through, Liz gives up actually listening and settles for nodding occasionally. Truthfully, her mind is on other things.

When at last the doctor is summoned out of the room, she sighs with relief because she can't be talked at any longer. She takes a sip of the coffee they've gotten her, noting that it tastes rather rich for a hospital-grade beverage, and flops back on the pillows. The hot drink spreads warmth inside her, doing its best to soothe the anxious thoughts threatening to implode her head.

Melissa has gone off duty and a younger nurse that showed up during the neurologist's speech lingers in the room, scribbling on some chart or another.

"That's a lot to take in. How're ya feelin'?" she asks in a soft southern accent.

Liz reads her nametag ("Kath") and notes that she's probably twenty-five at most. Great, she's still being baby-sat. By an actual baby this time. She is unexpectedly reminded of Kenneth, and wonders if he's moved on from being a page at her show. Oh, god, _TGS_…

"Really, really weird." She tries to smile because Kath hardly deserves the worst of her irritated thoughts. Her stomach is still jumping around like she's eaten a box of cheesy blasters, but it could just be the caffeine working. It's the nicest thing she's tasted in a while, having been in surgery for god knows how many days.

Surgery…Dr. Heart had probably talked about that. Not that she'd been paying attention.

The nurse gives her a sympathetic smile. "I don't blame ya. Just take it easy; don't push yourself. You've gotta lot to take in and your brain is tryin' to reboot itself," she drawls before consulting her watch in order to write down the time.

"When people get, you know, amnesia," Liz begins, attempting to flatten the whine in her voice, "do the missing memories come back?"

She knows she sounds desperate, but really. How many season finales will she have to re-watch?

The baby-nurse nods reassuringly, her blond ponytail bobbing. "Usually."

Liz shuts her eyes tight and tries to remember something, anything. But her dumb brain refuses to cooperate, and all it picks up is nothing. Just black, empty nothing.

"So, tell me about 2015." She opens her eyes. "I guess Obama was reelected."

Kath shrugs. "Yeah. I don't follow politics much, but I think that Palin chick ran."

Liz pouts. She can only imagine the material that she and her writers were able to come up with on that, and lets out a frustrated noise that she can't recall any of it.

"Somethin' wrong?"

She rolls her eyes, and shakes her head. She doesn't want to get into it, because what if this girl hates TGS? Or worse—is a fan of it?

"Nah, forget it. So…have they solved global warming yet? Or cured cancer?"

"Not yet," Kath informs her. To be honest, Liz is a little unimpressed by 2015. Her face must reveal such, because the nurse smiles kindly.

"Maybe some breakfast will cheer ya up, hmm? Would ya like continental, hot, or a fruit basket? Or all three?"

Right on cue, Liz's stomach growls and she winces in embarrassment. At least it didn't say actual words this time.

"Um, continental, I guess. Thanks." Then she frowns. "Hold it, fruit basket? Since when does this place have the money? No offense."

Liz has only been here a few times, for tests and stuff, but the city hospital is always beyond busy and the staff overworked. She is aware of the fact that she's received an awful lot of specialized attention, but she figured it was because she's just an interesting case or something. Personally, she believes that they should be drawing up her reality show contract right about now. (She can see it now: _Living With Amnesia: A Life in Ruins. _Fridays at 11:30 PM, on NBC.)

"None taken," Kath laughs, interrupting her fantasy. "This isn't the public floor, though; you're in the private wing," she adds.

_Private?_ Liz can't afford to go private. Private is for Jack Donaghy. Or Beyoncé and Jay-Z.

"I'll just get ya another coffee…" The nurse picks up the cup and turns to leave.

"Stop!" Liz exclaims in sudden panic. She can't have any more coffee. It probably costs fifty bucks a cup.

"What's wrong, hon?" Kath asks in surprise.

"I can't afford all this," she says in an awkward rush. "I'm sorry, I dunno why I'm in this room, but it's probably a mistake. I'm happy to move."

"It's all covered by your company health insurance," the nurse says. "Don't worry."

Liz is taken aback. At most, she'd expected her to say that someone else was taking care of it (e.g. Jack Donaghy), but her own insurance? A writer at NBC _wishes_ her benefits were that good. She should know, because they'd barely paid for her root canal. But she doesn't even want to think about work—or Jack—right now. She's still pissed that he's AWOL.

But maybe he'd negotiated for her contract some time during the last three years, and now her coverage is better. That would explain it.

And then it hits her right in the stomach. She's not the same person that she was three years ago. Sure, she's still _her_, but also someone different and older (she's reminded with a ping that she's forty-five, _nerds_). But at least she's someone with better health insurance, anyways.

What else has changed?

She takes a look around the room, and sees that the curtain has been pushed back. It was only a covering to keep out the light, not a divider as she'd previously thought, and it's obvious that the room is hers alone. Her eyes land again on the leather bag, and she realizes that she is probably its owner. Holy cow, that's some nice present. Either that, or she stole it. Liz hopes that she hasn't turned to the life of a criminal.

"Kath, do you think the bag is mine?" she gestures at it, like Kath would be able to tell if it was stolen or not. Liz happens to know that those purses could feed a third-world country. She thinks of them with the same distaste as she does of, say, Jack's baby seal couch, and she wonders if she became the type of person that revels in that kind of stuff.

"Should be." The nurse nods. "I'll just check for ya." She opens the clasp, which rings with a nice metal '_click'_, and pulls out a matching leather wallet. "Yup, it's yours, see?" She holds out a platinum American Express card with _Elizabeth Lemon_ printed across it.

Her brain short-circuits as she stares at the card. This is her AmEx. That's her bag. (Okay, she admits that it's nice, despite the starving children.) But someone has got to be playing a really weird joke, like reverse identity theft.

"Are you joking? My credit sucks!" she blurts without caring. (She never did pay off that bicycle. Nor did she ride it.) She grabs the bag from Kath and sifts through it, brushing aside receipts and weighty lipsticks. She comes across a little compact mirror, and opens it gingerly to have a look.

"You've had some cuts to the face, Liz," the nurse says quickly. "Don't be alarmed—they'll heal."

As she meets her own eyes in the tiny mirror, Liz feels a burst of relief. It's still her, even with a slightly swollen right eyelid. She tilts the mirror farther down: there are her lips, looking weirdly full and pink, like she's been making out all night—

_Son of a mother_, whose teeth are those?

Those aren't her teeth. They're white and gleaming and straighter than what the Invisalign ever did for her.

"Are ya okay?" Kath breaks her daze. "Liz?"

"Do you have a better mirror?" she finally manages. "I've got kind of an _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ thing going on here and it's freaking me out."

The girl raises her eyebrows in confusion. "There's one in the bathroom," she says slowly, looking at Liz carefully. (Liz is not surprised. She probably looks like she's about to punch something.)

She heaves herself out of the metal bed. Her legs are wobbly, but she manages to stumble to the adjoining bathroom.

"Now," Kath says, "you have some cuts and bruisin', so your appearance may be a bit of a shock."

"Yeah, I'll be fine, just show me," she says impatiently. Liz takes a deep breath and steels herself. What if they've shaved her head? Or removed a boob? No, they haven't done either of those things, she'd feel it. She needs to stop being ridiculous.

Kath swings the door shut to reveal a full-length mirror on the back of it.

Liz takes one look. Suddenly she can't breathe, and she grabs the edge of the sink, trying to keep control of herself. She tries to speak and fails miserably.

"I know your injuries look bad," Kath puts a strong arm under her, "but they're just surface wounds. They'll heal, believe me." She winks at their reflection, and Liz stares on with horror.

She's not looking at the cuts. Or the bandages on her forehead. It's what's _underneath_.

Some of her hair has been messed up by the crash, but the rest is a bright, unfamiliar shade of chestnut that curls gently past her shoulders. While still thick, it's a far cry from her mousy brown mop that occasionally cooperates under extreme conditioning (and fair weather). The lady in the mirror…her hair is silky as hell without an ounce of frizz. Beyond that, underneath the cotton hospital gown are her legs—a little thinner, and more muscled. Liz finds it impossible that she ever made use of her treadmill for anything other than a laundry rack, and yet here is some evidence. Some beautiful, if slightly off-putting, evidence. She gives a little squeak of incredulity.

"What's changed?" The nurse is looking at her curiously.

"Everything!" she grounds out. "I look all…shiny."

"Shiny?"

"My hair, my legs, my teeth…" She can't take her eyes off of the immaculate, Angelina-Jolie-grade teeth. They must have cost a freaking fortune.

"And my face is different; I'm not sure exactly how…" She doesn't look much older, so to speak (hooray for good genes), and she scans her features, trying to figure it out. Her eyebrows aren't really different, maybe a little more groomed…her usually thin lips seem fuller somehow…she peers more closely, suddenly suspicious. Has she had something _done_? Has she turned into someone _who has work done_?

With a spinning head, she flees the bathroom and the awful, lying mirror, and dives back into the bed. Ignoring the nurse's protests to take it easy, she grabs the stupid expensive bag and yanks things out of it, hoping that something will give her a message. There's silver Tiffany key fob, a pair of Prada sunglasses, a red YSL lipstick. Feeling very much like she's spying on herself, Liz opens the wallet again and comes across a small bundle of business cards. She takes one out, glances at the name under the NBC logo—and freezes.

ELIZBETH LEMON

VICE PRESIDENT, EAST COAST TELEVISION

The ground has been taken away from under her. It has been taken away and needs to be put back _right now_ because this is not okay.

"Liz?" Kath is regarding her with concern. "You've gone real pale."

She thrusts the business card towards the nurse with trembling hands. The words pour out in a flood of discontent. "Look at this. This is not right. This tiny card is telling me that somehow, in some mysterious way, I now hold the job of Jack Donaghy—who, by the way, still has not contacted me even once while I have been in here—" she cuts herself off, aware that she is shouting at the poor girl in utter hysterics. Desperate for answers, she grabs for the iPhone again, and peers at the screen. She has to call Jenna, her mom, _someone_ who knows what's going on…

She unlocks the phone, and looks at the screen. No missed calls, but she does have an unread text message.

_Good morning, Ms. Lemon—the sharks are kept at bay for now. I'm on my way from the office with some things; hang in there!_

—_A_

Who's 'A'? Before she can help it Liz thinks of that stupid show with a sinking heart. (And then she mentally slaps herself. _Pretty Little Liars_ is, after all, targeted towards teenaged girls.) If she doesn't pull it together, she may go into a stress coma and not even the doctors next door will be able to save her.

She racks her brains, but she can't think of a single person that she knows whose name starts with 'A'. She goes to the stored texts, and the first one is from 'A' again: _Cobb for lunch today? A._

Is 'A' her new best friend or something?

With that thought, a redheaded twentysomething blows into the room, halting before her bed. She glances at Kath and sets a sturdy leather briefcase on the chair in the corner, before taking Liz in with impossibly wide blue eyes.

"_Oh_, Ms. Lemon, I'm sorry it took me _so_ long. How _are_ you?"

Liz narrows her eyes. "_Who_ are you?" she replies somewhat rudely. The overly enthusiastic girl looks taken aback, before cocking her head.

"I'm your personal assistant. Angelique?" she says slowly, ending in a question. "They weren't lying about the amnesia, then," she confirms with a distressed mutter.

Liz just stares at her. As far as she knows about assistants (never mind that her knowledge extends as far as Jonathon and Kenneth), they are annoying and clingy. They're for people like Tracy or Jack, for…for…

Well. For people like her, now.

She wants to know how the hell this happened. What became of _TGS_? Where did Jack go, now that she's got his job? (Oh, god, please don't let him be dead.)

Where did her _life _go?

…


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry, this is kind of a filler chapter. Jack will show up soon, I promise!**

…

"Ms. Lemon? Ms. Lemon…" The red haired girl glances at the nurse nervously, who simply shrugs in abdication, and leaves the room to make her rounds.

"_LIZ_!" Angelique finally shouts, effectively startling Liz from her thoughts.

"Oh. Sorry." Liz clears her throat, and smiles apologetically. Clearly this person is someone close to her, though she looks completely unfamiliar.

She is also trying to help Liz, which means that she may not know her _too_ well.

"So, um, Ange—?"

"—You call me Angie, usually," she breaks in, nodding. A hint of hurt dances across her cheerful face, and Liz feels bad that she can't remember her.

"Uh huh. Angie, then. What do you do for me, exactly?" Liz asks, thinking that maybe this isn't so bad. It's not like she's never bossed anyone around before.

"I handle all of your appointments, both professional and personal, as well as organizing transportation, hotels, activities and so forth when you are abroad. I also perform small tasks around the office during your daily workday; errands and such." Angie recites this all with brisk certainty, and Liz is impressed at both her obvious competency and the fact that her (new) job requires such a person to ease the load.

"Oh, uh, wow. That's great. I think." There's something on her mind, but she's embarrassed to bring it up. She doesn't want to sound vain.

Aw, the hell with it. "Can I, um, ask you a question?" she begins, wincing.

Angie beams back. "Of course!"

"Have I ever…um, on my face…have I had work done?" she whispers the last part. Liz had Botox that one time, but come one, it was on a whim! She would never do actual _surgery_.

With a bubbly laugh, Angie hands over a compact mirror. "I think you probably just had a reaction to some anesthesia or something, Ms. Lemon. Look, the swelling's already going down."

She's right; her mouth is pretty much back to normal (besides the alien teeth). Liz was obviously just exaggerating in her brain, which is not unusual for her. She gives a sigh of relief and hands the mirror back.

"Thank god."

She has a million other questions, but only casts her eyes around the room while she tries to organize her thoughts. Her gaze lands on the abandoned briefcase, and at her questioning look, Angie claps her hands.

"Okay, let's get started! I've brought some things that will hopefully jog your memory. I hope this works," she says eagerly. The girl is a real bundle of energy, much to the delight of Liz and her still aching head.

The first object that Angie removes from the briefcase is a magazine. Liz can't see the title yet, and she figures that it's just to help her with some more current events.

"What's that?" she asks.

Angie flips the cover over with a pleased grin, and Liz's eyes widen at what appears to be the current month's issue of _Forbes_.

"It doesn't come out for another few days, but they sent you a copy, of course. The phone has been ringing off the hook!"

Liz doesn't respond, and with good reason: she can't breathe.

The caption reads _20 of the Decade's Best Executives_. The subject of the cover is photographed in partial profile, wearing a serious expression and her hair a severe French twist.

It is also, unmistakably, her.

"What the _what_?" she mutters, and grabs it.

Angie gives her an admiring look. "You've come a long way, haven't you?"

Liz tears herself away from the magazine and looks up. "What?"

"When you first hired me, about a week after you moved on from that comedy show, there was no way you fit the position—yet. You were scraping by on the good recommendation of Jack Donaghy, and sheer luck! But we worked out the kinks, and now you're absolutely outstanding," she winks, tapping the magazine.

Liz narrows her eyes at the mention of 'that comedy show'. "Really."

"Yep. You were fine at the nuts and bolts of the job—which I recall you being surprised at—but we had to phase out the manly sweaters and scrunchies," Angie says matter-of-factly. "You know, work on your image." Her face turns pensive as she tries to remember what else they changed. "That's when you had your teeth done, and the Lasik," she finishes.

She doesn't need glasses anymore? Liz isn't sure how the feels about that. She's worn them since she was five. They're practically a part of her.

Next, Angie pulls some photographs out of the briefcase, and Liz leans forward eagerly. This is it—these pictures will tell her missing story. They'll show her transformation from ol' Liz Lemon into…whoever she is now.

"Fire away!" She puts down the magazine, suddenly excited. "Show me my life!"

"Okay, this is you formally accepting the position at NBC," Angie says, holding out the photo. Liz peers at it with interest, and sees that it's a picture of Jack shaking hands with her, in what looks like a dining room. She's dressed rather business-y, smiling seriously into the camera. She's disappointed to find that she doesn't remember it at all. Why can't she remember her show ending?

"This is several months later, when you had them close down the Kouchtown factory after declaring it a waste of resources," Angie flips over a photo of a factory surrounded by construction equipment. "Wisely, I might add," she winks.

Well, duh. Of course Liz would clean up Jack's messes after he'd left. Again, she wonders what happened to him. He looked very much alive in the other photo, to her relief.

"And this is you at a charity ball…" There she is again, wearing a slinky black evening dress, dancing with a tuxedoed man in a grand-looking ballroom. Wait a moment. Doesn't she…know him from somewhere?

She does! She definitely recognizes him! _At last._

"Ms. Lemon?" Angie has noticed her expression. "Is this jogging your memory?"

"Yes!" she can't help a joyful smile. "I remember that guy. I'm not sure who he is exactly, but I _know_ him." She jabs at the handsome man in the photo.

"That's George Clooney," Angie says gently. "He was a fellow guest at the party."

"Oh." Liz bites her lip, frustrated. "Right."

George Clooney. Of course it is. She flops back onto the pillow, annoyed that she doesn't remember dancing with _George freaking Clooney_.

Speaking of handsome older guys…

"You mentioned Jack before." Her brow wrinkles. "What happened to him?"

Angie frowns back. "Your boss? What do you mean?"

"He's still my boss? But I thought…" Liz says with a hint of apprehension.

"Mr. Donaghy is Kabletown's CEO. If I recall correctly, you took on his position as VP less than a day after he was promoted. I'm sorry, it's easy to forget that you've, you know, _forgotten_," Angie says with a strained smile. (No doubt thinking of all the "progress" that's been undone.)

Something isn't right here. Liz remembers the diabetic episode with Don Geiss all those years ago, and it was definitely decided that she was _not_ fit for the executive position. What changed her mind? God, she needs to talk to Jack.

When she voices this to Angie, the redhead shakes her head vigorously. "No, no, _no_, you are _not_ to step foot in the office until you've had at least a week at home to rest."

Liz frowns; she wasn't planning on going to 30 Rock. She knows where Jack lives, and heaven help him once she has the chance to grill him on his whereabouts throughout her little hospital visit.

But her head _does_ hurt. Liz has always had a low threshold for pain. And some time in her apartment sounds really good.

"Okay, I guess," she agrees.

"I've brought you some clothes," Angie continues, and pulls a pair of dark denim jeans and a blouse from her bag. Liz glimpses the tag (Rag & Bone, whatever that is) and can't help exclaiming with wide eyes.

"I'm a _four_? Wow!"

When she looks up, Angie is studying her.

"It's strange," she says at last. "You're not yourself."

"What do you mean?" She certainly feels like herself. Besides the external effects of the…time jump, anyways.

"You're more…cheerful, I think." Liz's eyebrows shoot up. "Not that you're ever bad-tempered. Just serious, usually," the girl adds hastily.

Interesting. Maybe her pleasure center had been hammered out of her by the new job or something.

After a few minutes of silence, her thoughts flit elsewhere; since Angie brought up her apartment a few minutes ago, Liz has been itching to leave. Fortunately, at that moment, a nurse walks in.

"Elizabeth, some flowers for you," the nurse says quickly, rolling a cart full of enormous bouquets.

"No way, from whom?" She grabs a few cards.

_Best Wishes and get well soon. _

_From the microwave programming department._

Wow, entire departments are sending her flowers.

_Liz, get well soon! You'll soon be back to three hundred reps! From all your friends at the gym._

Three hundred reps? _Her_?

Well, that accounts for the muscular legs. She reaches for the next card—and at last, it's from people she actually knows.

_Get well soon, Liz. All best wishes from Jenna, Pete, and everyone at America's Kidz Got Singing._

Okay, so that's what happened to Jenna and Pete. As she reads the familiar names, she feels a warm glow. It's stupid, but she almost thought her friends had forgotten all about her.

With that, Liz looks up from the flowers.

"When can I leave?" she asks the nurse impatiently.

"Well." The nurse flips through her notes. "You're in good shape physically. I would say you'll probably be discharged by this afternoon. I'll make an appointment for you in a month's time as an outpatient. Until then, the best place for you is home." The woman's tired face molds into a smile. "I'm sure that's where you want to be, too."

Angie finds her a meatball sub, and a few hours later, Liz is allowed to leave. As they head out the door, she pauses in her steps. When she exits this hospital, she won't be able to hide any longer.

"What if I never remember?" she asks in a small voice. "What if all of these memories are lost for good?"

As she looks into Angie's concerned face, she suddenly feels very vulnerable. It's like that time Frank downloaded porn on her computer and it crashed and lost all her emails and stuff, only this is a million times worse. The tech guy kept telling her she should have backed up her files. But how do you back up your own brain?

…


	5. Chapter 5

…

Liz climbs into the waiting town car, and Angie scoots in after her. The newly-freed amnesiac bounces a little on the leather seat, inexplicably nervous to be going home. The driver is already navigating the traffic without having asked for an address, but she realizes that he probably already knows where she lives. With that, she settles into her thoughts.

Angie had said before that she's used to Liz acting…serious. What does that even mean? She underwent a crazy personality change because of TGS ending?

_Or was Criss leaving the last straw?_ whispersher annoying brain.

"Did I ever finish renovating my apartment?" she asks out loud, hoping that she didn't give up after Criss left. That would be inconvenient, and pitiful, and…well, not unlike her.

"Renovations? What renovations?" Angie looks confused.

"I bought the neighboring apartment a few years ago in order to—ah, forget it," Liz mumbles. She doesn't know why she's asking this girl, really. Except that her curiosity is killing her. That might be it.

"Now that I think of it, I think you brought it up once. But that was in your old apartment, Ms. Lemon, the Riverside Drive one," she says kindly.

"My…what? Wait, what happened to my place?"

Angie looks amused. "You sold it ages ago. You have a penthouse on Park," she shrugs.

Liz feels a pang, because she really loved that place. It has been her home for almost a decade, and now it's all gone.

She props her head on one hand and spends the remainder of the ride staring out the window. Soon, the landscape turns greener as they arrive in the Upper East Side area.

…

"This is my _home? _But it's giant! Look at it!"

"Well, it is the penthouse." Angie nods. "It's a nice size."

A nice size? Her apartment would fit on one of those _rugs._

Oh, right. _This_ place is her apartment now.

As Liz walks around, she finds herself in an awestruck state, feeling very much like she's touring one of those places on _Selling New York_. (Actually, now that she thinks about it, this place was probably in an episode she saw once.)

She patters in and out of the massive rooms, leaving Angie on the couch to busy herself. Every space she comes across is light and airy, decorated in tasteful neutrals, and accented by enormous windows that overlook the city. This place is much too classy for it to be hers, and Liz just feels like a guest in someone else's home.

When she finally makes her way back to the main room (truthfully, she got lost there for a moment), Angie stands with an intent look on her face.

"Do you remember any of this?" she asks earnestly. "Is it triggering anything?"

Liz sighs. "It's stunning. But no."

She looks around the room once more, unable to help frowning when she realizes that she can't see many signs of _her_. There are no brightly colored Slankets, no box sets of DVDs that have been left out, no 'Dry Clean Only' items of clothing that have been haphazardly thrown near the door in hopes that she would someday actually take it to the drycleaner's…In fact, the beautiful-yet-stark apartment terrifically reminds her of Jack's home. Clean and tasteful, but impersonal.

Oh, god, has she turned into the female version of Jack Donaghy? She nearly passes out at this latest thought, and settles for flopping back onto the amazingly comfortable couch. She doesn't want to think about any influence that Jack may or may not have had on her choice of housing. Liz is still trying to get over the part where _the freaking elevator opens right into the apartment. _

Angie must notice her distress, because she immediately suggests some activities to take her mind off of things.

"Ms. Lemon, do you feel up to going out? I could schedule a restful massage for you, or a nice gentle stretch class. What do you say?"

Fresh air is looking good to her right now, and she is itching to change from the tight skinny jeans.

"Okay, I guess." Then she hesitates. "Actually, this is a little embarrassing…but I don't know where my clothes are. All the drawers in the bedroom just contain paperwork and stuff. I can't find anything."

Angie looks utterly horrified. "You don't know where your _clothes_ are?"

Liz raises her eyebrows as if to say _yeah, so?_ while the girl takes a deep breath to compose herself.

"I'm sorry, I've just realized how scary this must be for you. To come home and have forgotten your entire wardrobe." She claps her hands once, immediately focused on her newest task. "Come on, Ms. Lemon. I'll show you."

…

Well, the reason she couldn't find her clothes is they're not in a dresser; they're in a whole other room behind a concealed door that looks like a mirror. And the reason they need a whole other room is because there's _so effing many of them_.

As Liz stares at the racks, she feels faint. She's never seen so many clothes, outside of a store (or Jack's closet, that one time she helped him decide on a tuxedo). Crisp white shirts, sleek tailored pants, blazers and jackets in shades of gray and black. Chiffony eveningwear. Tights rolled up in their own special drawer. Folded silky underwear with La Perla labels. She can't see anything that doesn't look brand-new and immaculate—no stains or rips, no baggy sweaters, no comfy cupcake pajamas.

She flips through a row of jackets, all pretty much identical apart from the buttons. She can't believe she's spent so much money on clothes and they're all versions of gray.

"What do you think?" Angie is watching her, eyes sparkling.

"Um…"

"Leah has a great eye." She nods wisely. "Leah, your personal shopper."

Liz shakes her head. "I have a personal shopper. Of course I do."

"I can see that you're a little overwhelmed by the clothes." Angie looks thoughtful, then her face lights up. "Try the shoes. You _have_ to remember your shoes!" she winks.

Angie then heads to the other side of the room and flings open a door. And Liz stares in disbelief. She's never seen so many shoes. All in neat rows, most of them high-heeled. What is she doing with high-heeled shoes?

"This is stupid." She turns to Angie. "I can't even _walk _in heels, god knows why I bought them."

"Yes, you can." Angie looks puzzled. "Of course you can."

"No," Liz shakes her head. "I've never been good at heels. I trip, or even fall over, I look stupid…"

"Ms. Lemon." Angie's eyes are wide. "You _live_ in them. You were wearing these when you did that merger last week."

She pulls out a pair of black pumps with four-inch stiletto heels. The scarlet soles are scuffed. The inside label has been rubbed away. Someone's been wearing these.

_Her?_

"Put them on," suggests Angie. "Just think of something distracting, and let instinct take over."

Cautiously, Liz slips off her ballet flats and steps into the shoes. She thinks of all the things she's going to say to Jack when she sees him—well, maybe 'say' is too gentle a description—and before she knows it, she's strutting across the room in confidence.

"You see?" Angie smiles. "Now let's get going; there's so much to fill you in on!"

…

About week later, after she has been sufficiently prepared and drilled by her assistant (boy, she's still getting used to that) on every aspect of her job, Liz goes back to work. Or, at least, she goes back to the office. The elevator ride to Fifty-Two seems endless, and when she finally reaches the floor, she proceeds to freeze in the doorway with a jolt of—sadness? —and simply stare at the room.

Angie had informed Liz that her closet-sized office on Six no longer existed. Instead, she'd (logically) moved to the one belonging to her job's predecessor. The idea of working in a space occupied by Jack for so many years thoroughly creeps her out, and as she surveys it now, she can't help but feel like his ghost is lurking around somewhere.

No, that's dumb. Of course there's no Jack-ghost. He's still alive, for one thing.

Her hair is straightened and glossy. Her dress and jacket are perfectly coordinated, with nary a wrinkle or spot in sight. She can do this. She's ready.

Right?

Ignoring the rising hysteria in her chest, Liz carefully lays her jacket and bag on the desk and slowly paces the room, noting the changes. The office has had a total facelift, right down to the new cream-colored pillows, but some things are still familiar, such as the large windows and hidden bathroom. When she remembers the secret wall panel, she immediately opens it with interest. Liz doesn't know what she expected to find—some leftover ties, maybe—but it instead contains a single sleeve of Double-Stuf Oreos.

Ha, so she still has a secret junk food spot! The quantity of the contents are not ideal, but it will do for now.

She rips open the package, and shakes a few cookies out. When was the last time she ate an Oreo? After popping one in her mouth, Liz glances down at her dress, automatically checking for stains. There are her legs, in all their unfamiliar toned glory. It has to be said—they look like they don't know what an Oreo is.

At that moment, Angie breezes into the room, arms full of fun-looking documents, _not_.

She eyes the Oreo in Liz's hands, but says nothing. (Wisely.)

"Here's some urgent paperwork for you to review, Ms. Lemon. You also have several appointments today that can't wait—"

"Cancel everything," Liz interrupts loudly. "I'm going to see Jack."

"Mr. Donaghy is—"

But Liz's glare leaves no room for negotiation, and with a sigh, Angie nods slowly.

"Yes, Ms. Lemon. I'll set it up right away. I believe he just arrived back in New York this morning," she adds.

"Good. Now go and get me some more Oreos," Liz orders. "It's going to be a long day."

…

Liz is a little surprised to discover that Jack's New York office is in the 30 Rock building. It's actually a little smaller than his old one, but decorated almost identically. When his assistant—a new one that she doesn't recognize—lets her in, she breathes deeply at the familiar scent of leather and scotch. Finally, something she can wrap her mind around.

"Mr. Donaghy will be up shortly. He's running a little late," the young man says politely, and then leaves her alone. She arranges herself on a plush chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, then her ankles. Liz has no idea why she feels so nervous. Maybe because she's got a sneaking suspicion that there is a very good reason why Jack hasn't inquired after her these past few weeks.

When he finally strides through the double doors, she automatically straightens up. He looks good, in a handsomely cut suit and slightly shorter hair, which he's stopped dyeing since she saw him. She wonders why he made the switch.

"Jack!" she rises, unsure whether to shake his hand or hug him or what. She settles for hanging back, somewhat awkwardly facing him.

"Liz," he nods, sounding oddly formal. "I heard about the accident, and was relieved to hear you were all right. How are you recovering?"

She frowns slightly at his tone—it's not quite unfriendly, but not exactly chummy—and shrugs uncomfortably.

"I'm, um, well. Thanks." She eyes him warily, definitely weirded out by his behavior.

Consequently, everything she had planned to say to/shout at him immediately flies out the window.

Jack gives her a small smile. "Excellent. And everything is fine at NBC?" he asks briskly, as if this is a routine question.

"Yes, it's all okay. Look, Jack, I—"

But he interrupts, somehow missing the confusion written all over her face.

"—Liz, I am very busy, as are you, and if there is something in particular you wish to discuss, I do suggest reaching your point."

Now she's staring at him openly. Jack is only this aggressive when he's really upset, and even then he rarely takes it out on her for no reason.

"What's wrong with you? No, first let me tell you what's wrong with _me_. I've had amnesia since the accident, and I came here for answers, not detached questioning."

She lets out a breath, not entirely sure why he's treating her like a colleague and nothing more. Her uneasiness is not helped by the fact that Jack is now eyeing her closely.

"Amnesia, really? How many years have you lost?"

Liz crosses her arms. "Three. Back to about right after—"

"—After Criss left," he finishes for her.

They lock eyes for a long minute, neither having a clue where to begin. Jack cocks his head, thinking that if she is telling the truth, then this could most definitely change things for him. For them.

In 2015, he and Liz are not friends. But they are in 2012.

…


	6. Chapter 6

…

"Yes, the amnesia reaches to right after Criss left," Liz confirms, and Jack clears his throat to compose himself.

"I see. This must be difficult for you," he says slowly, unsure of where to tread next.

She nods gloomily, but he doesn't pursue the train of thought. In search of a topic, Liz looks around the room at all of his hanging recognitions and plaques, then turns back to face him.

"Looks like you got everything you wanted." She smiles genuinely. "Congratulations, Jack."

He meets her gaze for just a second too long before looking away, and he decides that he can't lie to her. It would be easy, to make her believe that things are peachy between them, but it would not be fair.

"Not everything," he mutters.

Liz is used to his constant murmuring, so she hears his words easily.

"Oh, really?" she demands, hands finding her hips. "What could you possibly be missing?"

For god's sake, the man is never satisfied, and she's just about sick of it.

But he brushes it off. "Never mind, Liz."

She fixes him with a frustrated stare, finding a new bothersome detail to cling to. "Why are you doing that?" she asks in irritation. "You never call me that."

He frowns back with confusion in his blue eyes. "It's your name," he says plainly.

"I _know_ it's my name. I wanna know why you've suddenly conformed to what everyone else calls me."

"You asked me to refrain from using your last name a few years ago, out of a desire to keep things professional between us," he admits.

She's confused again. "Why would I do that? We _are_ friends; I wouldn't have cared," Liz says, cocking her head to one side. Jack looks at her for an endless moment, and she's about had it with his standoffish behavior when he opens his mouth again.

"Were," he corrects.

And her stomach jumps into her throat, his reply dragging her to the verge of having a breakdown. It can't be. He's lying—he _has_ to be lying. He is all she had…

"What happened?" she asks in a small voice, deathly afraid of the explanation. Jack doesn't answer for a minute, leaving her to dream up the worst-case scenarios (she's always been good at that) while he walks to his liquor stash to pour them drinks. Liz takes a seat on the leather couch, which seems much stiffer than her memory serves, and he hands her a glass.

"Please understand that anything I say next is not meant to upset you," he begins. "I only wish to explain our circumstances, and of course I will answer any questions you may have," Jack adds.

"O…okay," she stammers. "Go ahead."

It must be really bad if he's breaking it down for her like this. Liz sets down the untouched drink and curls her hands into fists at her sides, hoping that they can work out whatever is going on.

"About three years ago—which is why this is such an odd coincidence, that you've lost exactly that much memory—Criss walked out on the greatest woman he'd ever been with," Jack says bitterly. Liz winces at the reminder, and then can't help smiling a little at the sureness in his voice.

"Thanks, Jack," she says, thinking of his promise to only say as much once a decade. But even Jack has exceptions to his rules.

"Yes, anyways, moving on. It crushed you—it really did. You ignored my, and anyone else's, attempts at communication for nearly a week, and I was about to make a visit in person when I was alerted that you had showed up at Kenneth's party."

Liz grimaces at the foggy memory, feeling positive that she was a total mess that night.

"I arrived at his…event, and upon assessing your pathetic state, I promptly urged you to return with me in the town car. Obviously, you insisted on taking a cab. I called one, which is when you slipped in a puddle. After you regained consciousness, there was no way I wasn't accompanying you home, and I made sure that you returned safely."

She vaguely remembers Jack showing up at the party, though of course it all went blank after she fell. She hopes that she didn't throw up on him or anything.

"Thanks," she says. "I owe you one."

He shakes his head. "It's all in the past. But there's more to the story," Jack continues.

Oh, god. This is when he tells her that she did something stupid out of grief.

"A few nights after the party, you showed up at my door absolutely hysterical with crying. You seemed ready to talk, so I welcomed you in. After mostly rambling on about shattered dreams, you calmed down."

Well, good. So she regained her sanity after all.

"Then you kissed me," he says, effectively contradicting her last thought.

Liz thinks he must be joking, until she sees that his face is deadly serious—he really isn't kidding.

"Excuse me?"

"You were quite sober, I believe."

She doesn't know how to reply to this. "Wow."

"It was impulsive; you admitted as much. But it was equally my fault that I didn't resist for the next few hours."

"Hours?" she says in horror.

"Don't worry. We…were not completely intimate that night, after each coming to our own realizations."

Jack pauses.

"You were quite distressed, I remember. You were upset at the mistake you had made. Your words, not mine," he says quietly.

Liz doesn't miss that he has left out what his "realization" was, although it was probably the same as hers. Right?

But he isn't done.

"There was more crying, and you left my apartment with little ceremony. I had been planning to tell you that night that I had been named CEO the day before, but never got the chance. I assume that you read the company email, because the following Monday you were in my office inquiring after the job as vice president," he says thoughtfully.

He lands on another one of her major issues, and she perks up. Anything to distract from the last tidbit of information he's bestowed upon her.

"Just like that, I was fine? Jack, I'm trying to put the pieces of my life together…and it doesn't make sense. Why did I become all hard and ambitious overnight? Why did I want your job all of a sudden? I don't get it."

Jack seems relieved that she isn't pressing him on the romantic ordeal, and he looks pensive.

"You didn't specify exactly, only insisting that you were driven and capable. I believe you used the phrase 'natural career advancement'. I was confused at the time, but proud at your decision."

"Ugh, I really said that? What a load of crap."

"Yes, you said that. More importantly, you called it quits on TGS, ending the show. Shortly after I recommended you, you got the VP job. After that, things were…tense between us. We never discussed that night, and over time you—sorry, we—distanced ourselves from each other," he says carefully.

"We aren't friends?" she asks sadly.

"We're on excellent terms, professionally," he says a little too earnestly. "It's nothing to be bothered about."

(She can tell that he doesn't really mean this.)

"Why, though? Do you have any idea what changed…in me?" she asks softly.

"I like to think that I know you. Or knew you, once. Since you never went into detail, I could only guess, and I assumed that Criss leaving simply broke you somehow. You've been through a lot for one person," he says honestly. "I don't think you really recovered from that."

"And now we're strangers," Liz replies, close to tears. He wouldn't say it aloud, but it's true.

Jack doesn't comment, and she digests the rest of his speech for while. "I'm sorry," Liz says finally. "I want to try to fix things. I want us to be friends," she adds firmly.

He considers her for a minute, and she's afraid that he's going to disagree, and push her out the door with a _sorry, but co-workers only is our new rule_ and a businesslike handshake.

But when a promising smile spreads across his face, she think that there may be hope for them yet.

"Welcome back, Lemon."

Despite its main definition, her surname has never sounded so sweet.

…

When she returns to Jack's old office, Liz quickly finishes off the cookies she'd left behind, and spends the remainder of the afternoon splayed across the couch on her back.

It can't be true. She can't have dumped Jack.

She gazes straight at the ceiling, breathing evenly in and out. Her theory is that if she lies still enough, maybe the maelstrom of her mind will calm down and everything will fall neatly into place.

So far it's turning out to be a pretty crappy theory.

Every time she replays the conversation between her and Jack, she feels dizzy. He hadn't revealed much about his feelings—which he is excellent at—but had certainly _implied_ that she'd broke his heart. Or something.

She wonders what it was like kissing Jack. She bets his lips are kinda soft, but not too soft. That would be weird.

After shaking that particularly disturbing line of thought, Liz sits up on the (obviously expensive) couch to give herself a pep talk about all the crap that's showering down on her. First of all, Jack was probably exaggerating. TGS was going to be cancelled anyways; she wouldn't purposefully put a bunch of people out of jobs just so she could get a bigger office. As for her personal problems, three years isn't that much to not be friends with someone; soon everything will be back to normal with Jack like she never left—

Oh, god. The problem with giving yourself a pep talk is that deep down you know it's all bullshit.

There's a knocking on the door. Liz hurries over to the desk, picks up a random piece of paper, and starts perusing it with a serious-looking frown. She's still rattled from her little reunion with Jack, but she has to at least act like she knows what she's doing around here.

"Come in!"

In slinks the one and only Devon Banks. Liz stops her mouth from falling open just in time.

"Liz, _sweetie_," Devon greets, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I heard about the accident. How _are _you?"

"Fine. Great. Thanks," she says, avoiding multi-syllable words from fear that she'll say something stupid. (That ship may have sailed already. She's not gonna dwell on it.)

Devon has always spoken to her as if she is a total moron, though it occurs to her that he probably treats everyone the same. Fortunately, she is aware that he, too, is an absolute idiot, and she wonders what he could possibly want with her.

His eye is running over the pile of papers on her desk.

"Back at it already, I see."

"Not really," she smiles, but he doesn't return it.

"Have you decided what to do about Van Huesen's west coast deal? Because the guys in Accounts were all over me yesterday," Devon says in his weird voice rasp, fixing her with a beady stare.

Yeah, she bets they were _all_ over him.

"Well…" Liz hesitates. "Actually, I don't really…I'm not…" she swallows, feeling color sweep through her face. Devon's presence is creeping her out, which is not helping her already shaky confidence. "The thing is, I've had amnesia since my accident, and…" she trails off, clenching the paper tighter.

A paper that she hopes is not too important, because it is rapidly dampening from her sweat. The thought of working with Devon Banks—which apparently she has over the last few years—is enough to make her panic.

Devon's face suddenly snaps in comprehension. "_God_," he says after surveying her for a moment. "You don't know who Van Huesen _is_, do you?"

"I, um, well…no. But if you could just remind me…?"

Devon ignores her. He inches closer to her, like he used to do to Jack, his overly tanned forehead creased in an appraising frown.

"Let me get this straight," he says slowly. "You don't remember anything?"

All of her instincts are prickling. He's like a cat prodding a mouse, working out exactly how weak its prey is.

_He wants her job._

Liz feels like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. Of course he wants her job. She leapfrogged over him, and he's probably still after the position of CEO. Jack told her once that you have to be approved by the board, and even then, only higher-level executives qualify.

Jack may be CEO for now, but Liz hates to think of the lengths Devon will go to in order to get what he wants. She knows that he has to move up first, so he's obviously trying to go through her—the weakest link.

With that, she meets his gaze with as much steel as she can muster. "I'm sure I'll be back to normal very soon," she says brusquely.

He gives an irritating laugh, which makes her want to punch him hard enough to rattle his bonded teeth.

"Right, good luck," he scoffs. "I give you three days, tops. Enjoy the view while you can, Liz." He then gives a little chest thrust, as if working with him is the so-called 'view'.

"Ew," she tells him. Liz then proceeds to threaten to call security if he doesn't leave now, because can't he see that she is very busy running a company?

Devon saunters out of the office with the promise that she 'hasn't seen the last of him', to which she sticks her tongue out at his receding backside.

Two can play at this game.

…

There's only one way to go. And that's to get really, really drunk. An hour after Devon's visit Liz is slumped at the bar of a nearby hotel, finishing her third mojito. Already the world has turned a little blurry—but that's fine by her. Just as long as she can keep her balance on the bar stool.

"Hi." She lifts her hand to get the attention of the bartender. "I'd like another one, please."

The youngish guy raises his eyebrows very slightly, and then says, "Of course."

She watches him a touch resentfully as he gets out the mint. Isn't he going to ask her _why_ she wants another one? Isn't he going to offer her some legendary bartender wisdom?

He puts the cocktail on a coaster and adds a bowl of pretzels, which Liz pushes aside scornfully. She doesn't want anything soaking up the alcohol. She wants it right in her bloodstream.

"Can I get you anything else? An appetizer, perhaps?"

He gestures at the small menu, but Liz ignores it and takes a deep gulp of the mojito. It's cold and tangy and limey and perfect.

"Do I look like I'm alone in life?" she asks. "Be honest."

"A beautiful woman like you? No." The barman smiles.

"Well, I am, apparently." She takes another sip of the drink. "I learned today that I have zero friends. Plenty of enemies, of course."

"I'm sure you have friends."

"I used to." Liz puts her cocktail down and stares at it morosely. "I don't know where my life went wrong."

She sounds slurred, even to her own ears.

"That's what they all say." A guy sitting at the end of the bar looks up from his _Times_. He has an Irish accent and dark, receding hair. "No one knows where it went wrong."

"No, but I _really_ don't know." Liz lifts a finger impressively. "I have a car crash…and bam! I wake up and I'm trapped in the body of a lonesome alien."

"Looks like you're trapped in the body of a babe to me." The Irish dude edges along to the next bar stool, a smile on his face. "I wouldn't trade that body for anything."

She gazes at him in puzzlement for a moment—until realization dawns.

"Gross," she says, lingering on the 'o'. "Not interested, buddy."

He shrugs, and turns back to his paper.

There's a muffled snort from the bartender. Liz looks up suspiciously, but his face is straight. She takes another gulp from her drink and feels the alcohol kicking in, dancing around her head. Her ears are buzzing and the room is starting to sway.

Which is a good thing. Rooms _should_ sway.

"You know, I'm not drinking to forget," she says conversationally to the bartender. "I already forgot everything." This strikes her as being so funny, she starts giggling uncontrollably. "I had one bang on the head and I forgot everything." She's clutching her stomach. "I even forgot that I made out with my best friend and he probably hates me now. But I did, and he does!"

"Uh-huh." The barman is exchanging glances with the Irish guy.

"And they said there isn't a cure. But you know, doctors can be wrong, can't they?" she appeals to the bar. Quite a few people seem to be listening now, and a couple of them nod.

"Doctors are always wrong," says a lady sympathetically. "Yeah, they're all assholes," the Irish man pipes in.

"Exactly!" She swivels to him. "You are so right! Okay." Liz turns back to the bartender. "Can I ask you a small favor? Can you take that cocktail shaker thingie and hit me over the head with it? They said it wouldn't work, but what do _they_ know?"

The bartender smiles, as if he thinks she's joking.

"Great." Liz sighs impatiently. "I'll have to do it myself." She grabs for the shaker, and the bartender holds her back with little effort as he dials for a taxi.

…


	7. Chapter 7

After the weekend—which Liz spent in the fetal position on her bed, nursing her monstrous hangover—she drags herself into work mode, making an effort to do something with her hair and consume some much-needed caffeine.

As she straightens herself in the bedroom one final time, she frowns into the mirror. Liz just wishes her memories would come back. No, scratch that. She _needs_ her memory back. She's had it with people telling her they know more about her life than she does (she had a decent amount of time to herself over the weekend to stew in her own thoughts, and mainly spent it desperately trying to avoid dealing with the Jack situation).

It's _her_ memory. It belongs to her.

She stares into her eyes, reflected an inch away in the mirrored closet door. This is a new habit of hers, to stand right up close to the mirror so the only part she can she is her eyes. It's comforting. It makes Liz feel like she's looking at the old version of herself.

"Remember, you moron," she instructs herself in a low, fierce voice. "_Re-mem-ber_."

Her dark shark eyes stare back as though they know everything but won't tell. Liz sighs in resignation, because pep talks always suck, and grabs her bag before heading back into the office.

There's her desk, all spotless and neat with the chair pushed underneath tidily (she blames Angie, because she's never owned a desk that looked like this her entire life). On impulse, she sits down and opens the first drawer. It's full of letters, carefully clipped together in plastic files. The second drawer is full of company account statements, perfectly filed by date.

Jeez Louise. Since when did she become so _anal?_

Liz opens the last drawer, expecting to find meticulously stacked bottles of Wite-Out or something, but it's empty save for two pieces of paper. The first is a bank statement, and her eyes widen as she takes in her monthly salary—too bad there's nobody around to slap.

The other paper is obviously torn from one of those yellow memo pads. It has her handwriting scrawled across it; only three words in pencil.

_I just wish_

She stares at it. What? What did she wish?

Liz turns the scrap over in her fingers, trying to imagine writing the words. Was it a year ago? Six months? A few weeks? What was she talking about?

There's a knock on the door, interrupting her thoughts. She folds the scrap of paper carefully and puts it in her pocket. Then she bangs the drawer shut and stands to greet Angie, who bustles in with a black leather folder.

"Good morning, Ms. Lemon. I was just about to get your coffee, when the Dolson contract arrived—"

"Hey, Angie, don't worry about it," Liz interrupts, eyeing the thick folder warily. No way does she feel like finding out what's inside.

"You know what? I'll go get the coffee, and why don't you do, um, a preliminary read-through?" she suggests with a bright smile, trying to sound like she knows what she's talking about.

Liz feels the sudden need to escape 30 Rock. She's still rattled from the annoying note that she doesn't remember writing.

"Oh, well, if you're sure…" Angie frowns.

"Yeah, I'll be back in five, no sweat," she shrugs. When she notices Angie's stare, she clears her throat.

"I mean…I've just a few errands to run, and I trust that you can keep it under control until my return?" she amends in a professional tone, one eyebrow raised impressively.

Angie—eager to please—nods enthusiastically. "Oh, yes. Of course!"

"Great. See you soon," Liz says quickly, and rushes out the door, leaving her slightly perplexed assistant to shift the heavy folder in her arms. With luck, Liz won't have to do any work until the next year.

* * *

She returns to the office a half hour later, feeling refreshed from her quick sprint to the Tasti D-Lite. She holds two cups of the frozen treat; one for Angie, one for her.

(Angie doesn't need to know that this will be Liz's fourth.)

She waits for the elevator in the lobby, watching the numbers flip as the ice cream begins to melt.

"A treat for me?" Devon's sarcastic voice hits the back of her head. She turns to see him loping towards her, one of those trendy coconut waters in hand. "How sweet of you, Liz!"

God, he gives her the creeps.

"Hi, Devon," she says with forced cheer. "Good to see you."

Summoning all of her strength, she lifts her chin high. But despite her desire to remain confident, the rainbow sprinkles are killing her image a bit.

"It's really brave of you to come back, Liz," Devon says with faux sweetness. "Very admirable."

"Ha-ha, not really," she says through her teeth. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Well, any questions, you know where I am. Although today I'll be on conference call with Michael Brady most of the day. You remember Michael Brady?"

Son of a bitch. _Why_ does he pick the people she's never heard of?

"Remind me," Liz says reluctantly. She has the sudden urge to smear melting Tasti D-Lite in his spray-tanned face.

"Well, he was just telling me that—"

"—Devon," an impossibly smoother voice interrupts. "How _are_ you this fine morning?"

"Jack!" Liz says, shock seeping into her voice. Devon, however, just narrows his eyes at the intruder.

"I was just explaining to poor Liz here that waltzing in won't be as simple as she thinks—"

"—I trust that you are doing your best to assist Liz," Jack says coldly. Liz shoots him a grateful look, but he doesn't acknowledge it. "She is your superior, I may add."

Devon seems to realize that he is outnumbered. "Of course. Not for long," he adds in a mutter, and turns on his heels in the opposite direction. The elevator dings, and Jack gestures that Liz should go first.

"Thanks for that," she says. Once they are safely behind closed doors, she surrenders to the ice cream in her hand. "I'm still finding my footing," Liz mumbles through a mouthful.

"I must admit that I'm rather surprised to see you back so soon, Lemon," Jack says carefully. "I'm sure I gave you plenty to think about over the weekend."

Liz gives a little groan. "I almost didn't come back at all," she admits.

She couldn't be more honest. The day after her conversation with Jack, she had woken up with the most awful headache, and absolutely no desire to go to work again, ever. She had stumbled into the humongous kitchen, figured out the Keurig coffee maker, then sat down and wrote out on a sheet of paper, wincing at every movement:

OPTIONS

1. Give up.

2. Don't give up.

She had stared at it for ages. Then at last she put a line through _Give up_.

"Well, it's good to see you," Jack says neutrally, upon realizing that she's not going to elaborate. Liz can tell that he is walking on eggshells, and rolls her eyes before taking a bite of ice cream. It's not like she's delicate.

Then she decides to cut him some slack.

"You, too," she smiles. She really has missed him. To her, it's only felt like several months, because their relationship wasn't quite the same while she was with Criss. Liz feels guilty that for him, it's been actual _years_.

"Have dinner with me," Jack says suddenly. She starts, taken aback by how piercing his gaze is.

He's always been good at getting his way. Probably because of the aforementioned piercing gaze.

"Okay," she says as indifferently as possible. (The result is a timid-sounding squeak.)

"When?"

Jack doesn't miss a beat. "Tonight. I'll pick you up at seven."

* * *

This is a bad idea. It's a terrible idea. What is she _doing_, going out to dinner with Jack Donaghy? And it is, rightly, referred to as 'going out', because she will be dining with him in an establishment other than her home, after a mandatory car ride that will probably be beyond awkward. The painful ordeal will be helped along by the dress that she is obviously expected to squeeze into.

Liz desperately wants a doughnut upon having these thoughts.

But then she remembers her goal, which is to glean some actual details of The Night; that being the time when she apparently kissed Jack before running out of his apartment in a crying fit. She is almost, _almost_ glad that she can't recall any of it.

God, she's a mess.

Liz surveys her bedroom with narrowed eyes, where an explosion of clothing has buried the floor. About an hour earlier, she'd torn billions of garments off their hangers in a state of panic as to what she should wear for the date. Or the non-date. Whatever.

She finally settles on a foolproof black dress.

"Nut up," she tells her reflection. "And stop sweating."

Satisfied, she goes to answer the intercom. He's here.

* * *

"…And then I left my phone at Quizno's, so I had to send Angie all the way uptown to get it. Angie's my assistant, in case you didn't know. You probably already know that, though. Sorry if you already know that."

When people ask, 'How was the rest of your day?', one should answer with, 'it was fine'. So of course Liz is instead babbling.

She has never been good at social mores.

But if Jack picks up on her nervousness, he's being polite about it.

"That reminds me. I have something of yours," he says during her pause for breath. Unless it's her missing memories, Liz is probably not interested, but that doesn't stop her from being curious.

"What is it?" she asks. Jack reaches into his pocket to retrieve the item, and draws his fist out with something concealed inside.

"It's your necklace," he says softly, opening his palm. "You left it in my apartment—I suppose 'lost' is a more accurate term—that night."

She touches one hand to her collarbone, only just realizing that the gold 'L' charms have been missing. Jack lets the thin necklace dangle from his fingers before lowering it into her palm.

"When I found it, the chain was broken. I know it's silly, but I held on to it. You never asked about it," he says, and Liz wonders why he sounds…sad?

"You repaired it," she notices.

Jack shrugs. "I only just had it fixed the other day…it seemed right," he smiles.

"Because I'm back," she replies, meaning to phrase it as more of a question. His grin widens.

"Precisely. Allow me," he adds, and gently takes the jewelry from her open hand. Shifting her position on the car seat, she lifts her hair around her front and he moves to fasten the delicate chain.

She can tell that they are both holding their breath. Inevitably, his fingers lightly brush the back of her neck, sending an electrifying tingle down her spine. He mutters an apology, and hastily closes the clasp before leaning back.

"Thanks," Liz says, embarrassed at how uneven her voice sounds. The scene is an echo of that night, after Gerdhart's party, when Jack had reclaimed the borrowed necklace. It is achingly familiar, right down to the mixed feeling in her stomach…but that was back then, before they had known each other. Now she feels like they are once again taking baby steps, this time to reclaim their familiarity.

"Don't mention it."

The driver stops at the restaurant, and Jack holds the door while Liz tries to exit the car as gracefully as possible. Naturally, she has trouble regaining her balance on the damn heels, and teeters once before stumbling into Jack. He steadies her with a tiny smirk—to which she rolls her eyes—and he guides her into the bistro with one hand on the small of her back.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's been far too long since I've updated. Here's the final chapter—enjoy. And don't run away, there'll be an Epilogue!**

* * *

Once they are inside the bistro (Liz is glad she went with the black dress), Jack is still chuckling as their reservations are checked.

"Stop laughing at me," she grumbles. "I don't see what the big deal is."

Upon seeing her expression, Jack composes himself.

"I'm sorry. It's just that you're usually more…" he frowns, "Coordinated."

Liz raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, okay," she says. In the dictionary, the word "coordinated" is definitely listed as an antonym under the phrase "Liz Lemon".

Meanwhile, a tiny pang runs through her body. This Jack remembers her as a different person. This Jack probably has expectations about her behavior and personality that she can't even pretend to know about.

So there's nothing to do but move on.

"Let's just sit down," she mumbles before he can answer.

Once they are seated, Liz glances around the restaurant. It strikes her as being very familiar, though she can't remember ever having set foot in the place. When they first walked in, she chalked it up to it merely resembling other fancy restaurants that she's gone to (usually with Jack) over the years. But she can't put her finger on why her déjà vu is startlingly strong.

"Hey, Jack, have I been here before?"

"Have you been here before?" he repeats, once again realizing that she doesn't know about them; has no earthly idea.

"Yeah, I mean, I feel like I have, but I know I haven't, so I was wondering if this is a place that I went during, you know, the last few years or whatever, and I just thought…" she babbles, trailing off when she sees his face.

He looks at her, his eyes intense and questioning…and sad. "You really, _really_ don't remember anything?"

Liz remembers a few days ago, when she had congratulated him on his life. _Not everything_, he'd replied. Is he about to let her in on what that meant?

"No," she says wearily. "For the millionth time, I don't remember anything."

His face is only inches away now, and he studies hers, searching for something. "All of the things we said, that we did…there has to be _something_ to trigger your memory." He taps his fingers on the glossy surface of the table, frowning. "Does 'rosemary risotto' mean anything to you?"

_Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. _Her eyes drift to his hand as she racks her brain. Risotto. Risotto. Didn't she…

No, it's gone.

"Nothing," she says at last, and Jack nods slightly. "I mean, I _like_ risotto, but…?"

"It's what you usually order here," he informs her, his tone a little too casual.

"I see," she mumbles. She shrugs apologetically, uncomfortable from both his comment (mainly the use of the word "usually") and his watchful gaze.

He's so close she can feel his breath on her skin. Then his face changes, and she recognizes the look he gets when he's just had an idea. Uh, oh.

"Does this mean anything to you?" His hand has stopped drumming on the table, and he's moved it up to her face, where he gently cradles one cheek. Her eyes widen in alarm, partly because his thumb is now doing things to her cheek; things that feel…

Well. Good.

"Hm?" He prods.

She swallows. "No."

"This?" He leans in and brushes a kiss against her neck. This turns her brain back on, and she can't believe what an ass he's being. The nerve—!

"Stop it," she says feebly, but can barely get the words out. And besides, she doesn't mean them. Her breathing is getting shorter and shorter. She's forgotten about everything else. She wants to kiss him. She wants to kiss him in a way she didn't want to kiss Criss.

And then it's happening—his mouth is on hers and her entire body's telling her this is the right thing to do. He smells right. He tastes right. She can feel his hands grasping her arms, and her eyes close…

Then they pop open as she jerks herself away, and it is very cold all of a sudden.

"What the hell, Jack?" she whisper-screeches.

He simply looks thoughtful. (It won't last long, because she plans to tear him a new one.)

"Is there something you want to tell me, Jack?" she says slowly. Liz hates that she's so flustered.

He clears his throat, and looks conflicted. "Alright, so I wasn't entirely honest about, ah, that night. About it being our only encounter," he admits. "I stretched the truth a bit."

Liz flips the switch in her head from "confused and peeved" to "confused and enraged". It seems to work, as Jack visibly recoils from her stare.

"You lied to me?" she grounds out.

"Lemon, don't be like that," he recovers. "I just didn't want to attack you with it all at once. And I'll admit, I'm not sure I was ready to bring it all up again."

Liz crosses her arms. This is entirely unacceptable.

"This is entirely unacceptable," she says out loud. Liz hates being lied to even more than she hates uncomfortable shoes. Tonight is turning out to be real awesome.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," Jack adds.

Liz allows herself a few seconds of sullen silence, and when the red begins to disperse, she realizes that a deep sadness is surfacing. She no longer wants to pound his foot with her heel, because her heart is taking enough of a beating for the both of them.

"I just want the truth," she says tiredly. "Don't I deserve that?"

Jack mentally kicks himself when he sees the defeat all over her face. This was not how this was supposed to go.

"Of course! I was going to explain more—tonight, actually," he says urgently. Liz uncrosses her arms, but says nothing. She's listening.

"Look, the real story, if you will, barely differs from what I said the other day. You broke up with Criss…"

He pauses, gauging her reaction, but she doesn't move a muscle. That wound is no longer fresh.

"You broke up with Criss, and I brought you home from the party. That much is true. But when you showed up at my apartment a few days later, and we kissed, it became clear to the both of us that it was time."

"Time for what?" Liz asks, though she already has an idea. "And how do I know you're telling the truth, now?"

"Please, just trust me. It was time for us to try at something more than friendship. My chances at becoming the next CEO were increasing, you were working on the final season of _TGS_—it was time to take the last step, for us to further our personal lives."

Liz takes this in. As rational as he is making it sound, she's still finding him hard to believe. "Then what happened?"

"We had six blissful months, and then Colleen died."

She gasps, forgetting her rage. "Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's fine. You were wonderful, during that time. I don't think I would have gotten through it without your help," he says, certainly sounding genuine.

"Anyways, a few weeks later…I proposed," he continues, so softly that Liz finds herself leaning in.

"I'm sorry?" she asks, unsure that she heard correctly. Liz is positive that there isn't a ring lying around her apartment, and she most definitely isn't wearing one.

Jack watches as she sneaks a glance at her hand, just in case. "You said no," he states matter-of-factly.

Well, that does sound like her.

"Then you completely broke down. I don't mean to accuse you," he says hastily. "It's just what happened. At first, I was confused as to why. It was only later that I understood why you were scared, why you felt trapped and smothered. It was my fault, really."

"Jack…"

"Let me finish. It was because of my fear, Lemon. Fear that you didn't love me the way I loved you and that I could not—would never be able to—change your mind. Fear that not just our romantic relationship, but also our friendship, vital for my survival…though I'd never said those exact words out loud…was at risk. Fear that I was damaged and that I would damage you."

Liz bites back her smart remark at that once. She has never seen Jack with such angered passion in his eyes, and of course the confession of love is a new one. Then again, he had used the past tense. _Loved. _

"You saw it all, and finally, disgusted, pushed me away. You looked hurt and sad, and the waterworks arrived before I could say anything. And then the door was slamming behind you."

He swallows, and she has to believe him. It's too elaborate to fabricate, even for him.

"The next day, I tried to see you in person to apologize. But when you came, you were clearly facing an internal battle, one that I couldn't help with. You moved out that day, and I didn't get the chance to share the news that I'd been named CEO. The rest that followed is still true."

"You recommended me for the VP job, and we grew apart," she finishes with a hollow feeling.

"Yes. I regret it daily, but I had to let you move on."

"That's why didn't you just try to talk to me? Because you thought I was moving on?"

Jack frowns. "It seemed that way."

"I'm sure I was just wallowing in self-pity for a while. I probably got over it," Liz shrugs. But the sick feeling in her stomach tells her that this isn't true.

"No, and that was my fault. I should have moved offices, or something…"

Liz studies his features, which are carefully arranged into calm acceptance. She isn't buying it.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I mean it, I really do—you didn't, you don't, deserve any of that. I can't tell you why I said no, because I have no idea, but it wasn't fair for me to hurt you like that."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I do, though. Because even if I don't remember what our relationship was like, I can see your sadness now, and I hate it."

"I have no reason to be," he mutters. "I'm honestly happy to have you back," Jack says a little louder. There is real joy in his voice, and she can't help but agree with him. Business Liz clearly scares them both.

"I'm here because I want to be," she reminds him, gesturing around the dim room. "I came for answers, but I'm staying because I want to fix it," she says.

He is quiet for a while.

"Lemon, is there any chance that we don't have to regress to the very beginning? That we can…be more than?" He takes her hand then, emphasizing his point.

Liz shakes her head sadly. "Jack, you know why I can't do that. I want to give us another chance, I really do…but it has to be as friends. It's what I remember. I'm sorry."

Is it what she wants, though? Liz ignores the bells going off inside her head. Shut up, brain.

"I can live with that," Jack says, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Mother of Thor, must she ruin everything? But no, she has to stand firm.

"Again, I'm sorry. I've lost too much time…it would be too weird."

Jack nods. He understands. There's nothing left to do but order dinner, and pray that one day her memories return. He is notoriously impatient, but this time all he can do is wait.

Liz reaches for a menu at last, and changes the subject.

"So…the risotto, huh? How big are the portions here?"

"The portions?" He repeats, amused.

"Yeah, it's not as if I remember," she says only half-sarcastically, tapping her head with one finger. Jack smirks at this, and a bubble of hope swells inside her. They're going to be all right.

She can feel it.


	9. Epilogue

_Several months later _

Liz arrives at Saks on a Saturday, and travels up to the personal shopping department. She has an appointment with her shopper, Leah. According to Angie, Liz sees Leah every three months and they work on that season's "look".

Sounds like torture to her.

However, this trip is part of Liz's attempts to piece together the years she missed. Jack says that revisiting the places she used to go to might help her memory and it has been exhausting. Her motivation is that this appointment is the last one in her planner, then things can return to normal. Or at least something resembling normal.

She catches a glimpse of herself in a wall mirror. Her hair is a little less glossy now and cut shorter. Her t-shirt has a stain on it; her blazer is just slightly wrinkled.

Yep, Liz Lemon is back.

So what if she doesn't fit into the skinniest of her (stupidly expensive) jeans anymore? She and Jack are friends again, and that's good enough for her. And being VP isn't as hard as she thought. Once Jack had Devon transferred to Connecticut (a place that in her mind, Liz equates with hell), she learned the job—for real this time—pretty easily. It's mostly approving new shows and axing unwatchable ones, which Liz is great at. And her giant office is pretty awesome.

She even had a trampoline installed.

"Liz! How _are_ you?" A voice greets, yanking her to the present as she steps into the reception area. Leah is petite, with close-cropped blond hair, and a perfume that turns Liz's insides instantly.

"I was so devastated to hear about your accident!"

Liz attempts a smile and tries not to wish she were somewhere else.

"I'm fine. Thanks. All better now."

"Good! Now, I have some _fabulous_ pieces for you to see." Leah ushers her into a room and presents a rack of clothes with a flourish. "You'll see some new shapes and styles here, but I think you can pull them off…"

What is she talking about? They're all suits in neutral colors. Not even blazers—suits. Yech. Who is she, Ann Romney?

"I think we're done here," Liz says, thrusting away the tan skirt and matching jacket that Leah is holding up against her. Without another word, she makes for the escalator. But when she reaches the bottom, her eyes roll on their own accord.

It's not that she's been ignoring Christmas; she's just not in the mood for it this year. (Her track record for the holiday—well, every holiday, really—is not great.) Saks, though, could care less about her mood, because they didn't stop at garland, which is everywhere. There are huge Christmas trees covered in ornaments, and a choir is standing on a mezzanine, belting out "Hark the Herald."

In matching outfits and everything. Wow.

"Champagne?" A guy in a Santa hat offers a tray full of tiny glasses, and Liz takes one. As she wanders on, she realizes she is lost in the layout of the damn place, and has strayed into menswear. It could be worse, seeing as she's not in a super hurry. Liz isn't eager to return home to her huge, lonely apartment.

So she chooses Christmas Prison for now.

She walks around for a few more moments, finishing the champagne, listening to the Christmas songs playing and watching the lights twinkle…

Oh, god, they've got her. She has to leave, before she starts buying jumbo packs of scented candles and Bing Crosby CDs. She's just looking for somewhere to put her empty glass down, when a bright voice greets her.

"Hello again!"

It's coming from a woman folding sweaters in the men's Ralph Lauren department.

"Uh…hi," Liz says uncertainly. "Do I know you?"

"Oh no." She smiles. "I just remember you from last year."

"Last year?"

"You were in here, buying a shirt for your…man." She glances at Liz's hand, which is as bare as ever. "For Christmas. We had quite a long conversation as I gift-wrapped it. I've always remembered it."

Liz stares back at her, trying to imagine it. It would have been during her relationship with Jack, she realizes. When they were…intimate. She wonders if the sex was good. Jack never talks about it, always changing the subject. Then Liz pushes the thought from her mind, because they're good friends again and she can't mess it up, not again...

"I'm sorry," Liz says after the silence. "I've got a crappy memory. What did I say?"

"Don't worry!" She laughs. "I only remembered it, because you were so…" The lady pauses, mid-sweater-fold. "This will seem silly, but you seemed so _in love_."

"Right." Liz nods. "Right." She brushes back a strand of hair, telling herself to smile and walk away. It's a coincidence, that's all. No big deal.

But as she's standing there, with the lights twinkling and the carols blaring over the loudspeaker and a strange woman telling her what she did last Christmas, all kinds of buried feelings are thrusting their way up like steam. The tape is peeling up at the corner; she can't keep the past in its place anymore.

Blerg.

"This may seem like a…weird question." Liz wipes her sweaty hand on one jean-clad leg. "But did I say what his name was?"

"No." The woman eyes her curiously. "You just said he was everything. You hadn't had it all before. You were bubbling over with it, with the happiness of it." She puts the sweater down and looks at Liz with genuine concern. "Don't you _remember_?"

As if she isn't tired of hearing that phrase.

"No."

But something is clenching at her throat. It was Jack. It has to have been.

Jack, whom she tries not to think about in _that way_ every single day.

"What did I buy him?"

"It was a shirt like this, as I recall." She hands Liz an ordinary navy shirt, and she holds it, trying to picture Jack in it; herself choosing it for him. Tries to conjure up the happiness. Maybe it's the champagne; maybe it's just the end of a long day. But she can't seem to let go of this shirt. She can't put it down.

"Could I buy it, please?" she says. "Don't bother wrapping it."

* * *

Liz doesn't know what's wrong with her. As she walks outside to hail a cab she clings to the blue shirt, holding it close like a comfort blanket. Her whole head is buzzing; the world is receding, like she's getting the flu or something.

A taxi pulls up and she gets in, on autopilot.

"Where to?" asks the driver, but Liz barely hears him. She can't stop thinking about Jack. Her head is buzzing harder now, and she wonders what the hell was in the champagne…

She's humming.

She doesn't know what her head is doing. She's humming a song she doesn't know. And all she knows is it's Jack. The song is Jack. It means Jack. It's a tune she knows from him.

Liz closes her eyes desperately, chasing it, trying to pin it down…And then, like a flash of light, it's in her head.

It's a memory.

She has a memory! Of him. Her. The two of them together. The smell of salt in the air, his chin scratchy, a gray jacket…and the song. That's it. A fleeting moment, nothing else.

But she has it. She _has_ it.

"Hon, where to?" The driver has turned around. Liz stares at him as though he's talking in a foreign language. She can't let anything else into her mind; she has to keep hold of the memory…

"For Chrissake." The cabbie rolls his eyes. "Where d'you want to go?"

There's only one place she can go. She has to.

"Upper West," she manages. As the taxi crawls through the city, Liz sits bolt upright, clutching the edge of the seat with one hand and the shirt with the other. She feels as though her she can't think about the memory or else it'll wear out. She can't talk, or look out the window, or let anything into her brain at all. She has to keep this memory intact… she has to tell him.

As they arrive on Jack's street she thrusts some money at the driver and gets out, immediately realizing she should have called first. She yanks out her phone and dials his number. If he's not here she'll go to wherever he is.

"Lemon?" he answers the phone.

"I'm here," she gasps. "Jack, I remembered."

There's silence. The phone goes dead and the next minute the lobby door opens and there he is, in a button-down and khakis, looking heart-stopping-ly casual.

"I remembered something," Liz blurts out before he can say anything. "I remembered a song. I don't know it, but I know I heard it with you, at the beach. We must have been there one time. Listen!" She starts humming the song, not caring how crazy she sounds.

"Do you remember?"

"Lemon, what are you talking about?" Jack pushes his hand through her hair. "Why are you carrying a shirt?" He looks closer at the fabric in her fists. "Is that mine?"

"I heard it with you at the beach! I know I did." Liz knows she's babbling incoherently, but she can't help it. "I can remember the salty air, and your chin was scratchy, and it went like this…" She starts humming again, but the hope drains from her and she knows she's getting more inaccurate, scrambling for the right notes.

Jack's face is twisted up, perplexed. "I don't remember," he says.

Which makes her mad.

"_You_ don't remember?" Liz stares at him in outraged disbelief. "_You_ don't remember? Come on! Think. It was cold, but we were kinda warm, and you hadn't shaved…you had a gray jacket on…"

Suddenly his face changes. "Good God. The time we went to my place in the Hamptons. Is that what you're remembering?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" she shouts helplessly, and Jack winces. "Sorry. Maybe."

"We went for the weekend," he nods. "We were on the beach, and it was freezing, so we wrapped up and we had a radio with us…hum the song again?"

Okay, she never should have mentioned the song. She's a terrible singer. Mortified, she starts humming again. God knows what she's singing now.

"Wait, is it that song that was everywhere? 'Call Me Maybe.' You loved it almost as much as I hated it." He sings a line of the chorus, with a look on his face that is part disgust and part hope.

"Yes!" Liz says eagerly. "That's it! That's the song!"

There's a long pause, and Jack rubs his face. "So that's all you remember. A song."

When he says it like that, it makes Liz feel ridiculous for speeding across New York. And all of a sudden, cold reality is crashing into her bubble. He's not interested anymore, he's moved on. He hasn't mentioned any women lately but that doesn't mean he's not looking.

"Yep." Liz clears her throat, trying unsuccessfully to seem nonchalant. "That's it. I just though I'd let you know I'd remembered something. Just in case. So, um, anyway. See ya Monday. Bye."

She twists the shirt with clumsy hands. Her cheeks are flaming miserably as she turns to leave. This is so embarrassing…she needs to get out of here, as quick as she can. She doesn't know what she was _thinking_—

"Is it enough?"

Jack's voice takes her by surprise. She turns around to see he's come further onto the sidewalk, his face taut with hope. And at the sight, any lingering weirdness from the last few months seems to fall away. They've been slowly making amends, but in this moment it's really just _them_ again.

"I…I dunno," Liz manages at last. "For what?"

"For us, Lemon. I know you've needed a memory. A thread linking us to…us." He takes another step towards her. "Now you have one."

Liz laughs just for the heck of it. She can't believe it. Jack closes the space between them, taking her face in his hands, and just surveys her for a moment, silent and purposeful until her insides are hurting with want.

"Is there any chance you recall what happened after we went inside that day?" Jack asks playfully.

Liz can't hold out anymore. She has to pull his face down to her for a kiss. And this one she won't forget; this one she'll keep forever.

"I'll tell you," she murmurs at last, her mouth nearing his. "I'll tell you when I remember. Now kiss me."

_End_


End file.
